Walking

I went for a walk

I was lost
So I started walking
And now I'm not sure I can stop
Or whether I really want to
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It's a pattern so simple it becomes subconscious
But I think my mind is fond of that simplicity,
That certainty,
Because it embodies everything which the world around me does not,
The push and pull of muscle against bone,
The stretching sinews and expanding lungs,
The coursing crimson which never ceases and rarely slows
And all of it fuelled by the incessant dual thudding of the heart
It's a beautiful, horribly flawed machine, but it usually works.
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